


hands of an animal

by kiwiya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiya/pseuds/kiwiya
Summary: Castiel is revolted by Sam. Crowley is revolted by Cas in turn. The chapters are pretty much standalone.





	1. cas/sam

There was something about the abomination that always left Castiel’s stomach flipping.

There was everything about him, rather. That God even allowed a _him_ to coat the inside of the vessel, it left a taste in the angel’s mouth.

At times, he would see Dean bloodied, with the giant hands of an animal on him, and swallow bitterly when there was nothing but tenderness in the beast’s eyes. When Dean blasphemed, when any man did, he was loud and he was callous, but somehow the words only prickled when they came stuttered and apologetic from Sam.

And the very worst, the _very worst_ , was the pounding in his chest when he looked up into those eyes that should have been empty, should’ve been waiting to be filled with every evil thing, when he braced himself to fall down in them and burn forever, and was accosted not with fire but only with gentle paws smoothing down his shoulders and a low voice reminding him that, _oh_ Cas, it would all be okay.


	2. cas/crowley

The first time Castiel does it - and he’s not entirely sure why he does it, but he suspects (with a twinge) that it’s reflexive. A fledgling habit still sinking in after all the times he cupped his wings around Dean and Sam, invisible and comforting because they always used to need it, and… And.

So, the first time Castiel does it - extends his grace and bumps it casually against Crowley’s soul - he doesn’t mean more than a brush of shoulders or a pat on the back, just a flare of contact to reaffirm his presence. He doesn’t realize what’s happened until the demon cries out, recoiling like he’s been physically struck, and Crowley is hunched over ten feet away, hands rubbing at his chest as if they could reach inside and touch his soul themselves.

“Angel!”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I forgot-”

“What the hell were you trying to do?”

Crowley has composed himself again, but there’s a lingering burn in his eyes, and Castiel can feel his soul still roiling in the air - even from across the room - as the holy touch continues to smoulder and the pain, he imagines, struggles not to subside. Grace always fell smooth and cool over the Winchesters - even in their most troubled times, it could still the churning of a distraught human soul - but Crowley wasn’t…

He’d honestly forgotten, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do to apologize, or to ease the righteous burning. The seconds tick by and, though Crowley’s facade is convincing, his breath still comes hard and ragged. Castiel knows, now, that he’s set a fire running on its course, and his shoulders sink with… probably guilt. He lowers his head to watch the demon’s shoes in silence.

Crowley closes his eyes and grumbles a moment later. “Like salt in a split lip.”

Cas tips his head to one side, glancing up only for a second. “I suppose.”

Eventually, the black presence pushing out of Crowley fades from the room - presumably pulled back inside Castiel’s demon, who very valiantly keeps a straight face all while his split soul is burning and scabbing back over.

“I apologize, I do.” Castiel sighs, finally raising his face. “The gesture is usually a very tender one. I just, I didn’t think.”

“Tender? That’s what you angels call righteous fury, tender?”

“I didn’t intend to smite you.” Castiel grimaces and tucks the last tendrils of his wings fully back up inside himself. “That was my grace.”

“Your grace.”

Crowley’s eyes flash so briefly that Cas isn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it, and silence wedges itself hard down between them again. This time, a more cautious being, Castiel closes the distance physically. He crosses the room in a few pointed steps and, a full arm’s length away from the demon, reaches out to settle one hand down on his shoulder. Crowley raises an eyebrow, but he says nothing, he’s not mocking anymore, and if he feels threatened, it doesn’t show.

It’s not filling, corporeal contact. There is no profound cleanliness or soulful entwining or holy, all-encompassing warmth; just a stiff hand on an unnaturally cold shoulder. But it’s small and it’s not painful and it doesn’t force either of them away. And all other kinds of contact they’ve had considered, that’s… that’s probably good enough.


End file.
